So he’s doubly annoyed. Not only did I neglect to loop him in, but I didn’t bother asking his legal advice.
“I considered it, but I was afraid doing that would make it look like I had a reason to be worried—and Roger agreed.”
“Roger’s a legal expert now?”
“I’m not saying that, but he has good instincts. And in hindsight, I realize that bringing a lawyer would have definitely rubbed this detective the wrong way.”
“So how did she respond to this new piece of information?”
“She said they would share it with the coroner, but she didn’t let on how significant she thought it might be.”
“Was she critical of you?”
“Uh, she didn’t seem to be. She said kids are often too stressed to divulge everything in a situation like that, and they leave stuff out.”
“That makes sense, I guess.”
I start to tell him about the part of the interview that made me so uncomfortable, but I hold back. Despite just having promised to be more forthcoming, I don’t want to dump anything more on Hugh tonight.
“Do . . . do you think my statement is enough, or that I’ll be asked to testify if someone is arrested?”
“You’d definitely be required to testify,” he says bluntly, as if he’s thinking, So now she wants my advice.
He pushes around the last piece of chicken on his plate without bringing it to his mouth. Instinctively I glance at my own plate. I’ve barely touched a morsel, and now the lemon sauce has congealed into an unappetizing, glutinous glob.
“What you told me about finding the kid,” Hugh says. “You only remembered it the other night? Out of the blue?”
“Not out of the blue,” I insist. “It was after I’d come back from coffee with Roger. Something was nagging me, and I finally realized what it was.”
Hugh sets his fork across his plate and swivels until he’s facing me. “Is there any chance you only remembered this detail recently because you might have been in a fugue state back then, after you found the body?”
I shake my head.
“No way. I’m sure Roger would have told me if there’d been anything like that.”
“Okay, I was just wondering . . . in light of everything that’s happened.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t in a fugue state then. I lied—and then I pushed away the memory, but I was all there.” I change the subject abruptly. “Are you finished? I should let you work.”
“Ally, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, turning so he can’t see the disheartened expression on my face. “It’s a relevant question.”
We do a fast cleanup, and afterward I drift into the bedroom with a cup of herbal tea. There, I phone Gabby, realizing she never responded to my message from yesterday. I’d really love to talk to her, but the call once again goes straight to voice mail. It’s so unlike her to be uncommunicative, especially since she’s aware of the mess I’m in. Perhaps she’s caught up in a work-related crisis.
I start to toss the phone on the bed, but instead do something I probably shouldn’t and call my father. There’s a decent chance, I realize, particularly considering how low my mood is, that he’ll pick up on my anxiety, but I still long for the comfort of his voice.
“Hey, Button,” he proclaims after I’ve announced myself. “What a lovely surprise.”
There’s an energy in his tone I haven’t heard since before his heart attack.
“I thought I’d do a quick check-in before bed.”
“All good on this end. I’m feeling stronger every day, and Quinn and the family have been spoiling me rotten.”
“That’s what Roger told me.”
“He says you two have spent some time together lately. Glad to hear it.”
“Yes, it’s been fun. But I miss you, Dad.”
Careful, I warn myself. Don’t go all weepy on him.
“I miss you too, honey. By the way, I listened to your podcast today. Excellent as usual. Your mom would be so proud of you.”
He speaks that phrase often enough, but this time it makes me want to start bawling. I take a breath to guarantee my voice won’t crack.
“Thanks. I like to think she would be.”
After we hang up with a pair of “I love you’s,” I don’t know whether to feel relieved or saddened. My dad clearly didn’t detect any cues of distress from me, and I’m glad I haven’t given him a reason to worry, but deep down a part of me wants him to know, wants him to notice the anguish in my voice so he can assuage my fears, especially after Hugh’s deflating response tonight.
But in the end, how helpful could my dad really be? He’s three thousand miles away. And he can’t tell me where I was those two days—or why I felt an urgent, crazy need to leave myself behind.
I strip off my clothes, don a pair of pajamas, and slip into bed with my iPad. After a feeble attempt to engage with the book I’d been reading, I end up replaying my conversation with Hugh from earlier, hoping that if I can see his comments from another angle, they won’t leave me so disquieted. I was praying for understanding and acceptance, and I came away with neither of those.
Maybe Hugh wasn’t passing judgment. It could be instead that his annoyance over being left in the dark shaded his reaction. He might even be worried that I’ve put myself in legal jeopardy.
Or—and this scares me—maybe what I actually saw with him tonight was fear pooling to the surface. Fear that he married a woman who came unhinged not only last week, but at other times during her past. Where will that fear take him?
What if, as Hugh suggested, I was in a dissociative state years ago? One I don’t even know about? And what if there’s more that I don’t remember from that day in the woods?
Clearly the interview with the cops in Millerstown is still weighing on me, especially the one weird question Corbet asked.
I throw off the covers, climb out of bed, and after plopping down at my desk in the alcove, I open my laptop. Then I google “Techniques detectives use in interviews and in interrogations.”
A host of links pop up—to blog posts, descriptions of courses on the subject, even pages from textbooks. I start with the first link and begin scrolling, my eyes racing over the words. Cops, it turns out, use all sorts of cagey strategies to elicit the truth, sometimes pinning people to a psychological wall. Before long I find a reference to a common strategy that makes my skin crawl: offering a suspect an acceptable excuse for committing the crime. It allows—even encourages—the person to confess without losing face.
I realize, staring at the words, that Corbet had used that technique on me, when she mentioned the idea of someone losing their temper and not really meaning to cause any harm. My heart sinks.
Could she possibly believe I was the one who’d killed Jaycee Long?
21
SESSION WITH DR. ERLING
By the time I reach Dr. Erling’s office the next day, I’m nearly jumping out of my skin.
She greets me warmly and ushers me into her inner sanctum. She’s in slim black pants and a cobalt-blue silk blouse, perfectly polished as usual.